


Rulebreaking

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [23]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Roman reminds himself he can’t start tallying points like a competition, like Harry grabbing the spot beside Connie was him winning for the night. It’s stupid, and immature, and Connie isn’t something to be won, he’s a fuckingpersonwho can make his own decisions.





	Rulebreaking

Roman didn’t realize just how well Connie handled team time since the whole…whatever you could call this situation…until the Spider doesn’t come on the road trip. The first game goes fine — well, the first game goes awful, actually, Serrano getting hit right in the numbers and leaving the game, Roman getting a misconduct for coming in because Redmond was big enough to throw a dirty hit but not big enough to drop the gloves, and then getting a little beat up when he finally got back into the game, thanks to another Chief being more than happy to fight Redmond’s battles for him. 

Connie brings him ice and a worried look after the game. He’s never proven Roman wrong about that Sweetheart nickname, not once. 

It was an ugly loss, both on the scoreboard and in losing Serrano, who’s been as hot as the name would suggest. They all go back to their rooms after to lick their wounds, literal in Roman and Serrano’s cases, and when they’re flying out the next morning, they’re leaving their hottest scorer behind, booked on his own flight back home. 

They win the next one, thankfully, and by a wide margin, Fitzy stepping up to fill the void and notching two goals, Connie and Findlay and Roman sealing the deal with goals of their own. They’ve been having some trouble finding the back of the net lately, Serrano excepted, winning more than a few just because Emmanuel’s won the goaltending battle, so of course they go out.

“Buy me drinks, Captain my Captain,” Fitzy demands, hanging off Dev’s back, and when Roman snorts at him, “Roman too, he had the game-winner.”

Devon sighs, but he ends up buying drinks for all the goal scorers, and two for Fitzy, cheating by getting him two half pints. 

“Gotta be more specific, Fitzy,” Roman says, when Fitzy takes a breath from bitching about it.

“Fuck off,” Fitzy says cheerfully. “Why’re you sitting with me?”

“No idea, honestly,” Roman says, “You’re really annoying.” He doesn’t need Fitzy’s glance over to Connie to know what he meant by it. Considering the fact that Harry and Connie share a room on the road, it was hard not to begrudge Harry sliding in to sit beside Connie at the bar when they got in, right into the spot Connie would have reserved for Victor to avoid treading on anyone’s feelings. 

Roman reminds himself he can’t start tallying points like a competition, like Harry grabbing the spot beside Connie was him winning for the night. It’s stupid, and immature, and Connie isn’t something to be won, he’s a fucking _person_ who can make his own decisions. Still, Roman’s maybe a little annoyed right now. At Harry, which is too easy, and at Victor for being sick so Connie can’t use him as a human shield the way he’s been doing, which is _ridiculous_ , and — not Connie. He’s not annoyed at Connie. However shit this whole situation is for Roman (and Harry, he grudgingly allows) it has to be worse for Connie, considering the fact he looks on edge every time the three of them are in the same place.

 _It’d be easier if you put one of us out of our misery_ , Roman thinks, and then immediately bites his proverbial tongue. It’s not like Roman didn’t agree to this.

Roman doesn’t know if Fitzy’s able to see his mood get blacker and blacker, or he’s just running off excess energy, but he downs his first half-pint and jumps up, banging his hands on the table.

“Bet you a blowjob I can beat you in darts,” Fitzy says.

Roman can hear Findlay sigh from four tables over. 

“You hoping you can win because my depth perception’s fucked right now?” Roman asks. “Because it’s not.”

“I would never,” Fitzy says, holding a hand to his chest in false affront.

Roman shrugs off his suit jacket, starts to roll up his sleeves.

“Ohhh, he’s getting serious,” Fitzy crows. “Someone wants a blowjob.”

“Someone better get his wallet ready,” Roman says. He almost leaves his shit at the table, but thinks better of it, considering last season he got his wallet stolen in almost exactly the same circumstances. The two hundred bucks he had in it was the least of the problem: it’s an unholy pain in the ass to get all your ID and your credit and bank cards replaced. Usually he’s got his wallet in his pants pocket anyway, but unfortunately that’s a no go tonight.

This is Roman’s fault for opting for the one pair of pants he owned that has pocket space for _maybe_ a dime. The exchange is that his ass looks great in them, he’s heard that from multiple authorities, and sometimes the trade-off is worth it. He was maybe thinking more of appearance than utility when he was packing for the trip, especially with the knowledge that Connie and Harry are sharing a room — and maybe a bed — for the entirety of it.

Roman’s not usually a particularly vain person, so of course it comes to bite him in the ass. At least it looks good while it’s getting bitten?

“Gimme a sec,” Roman says.

“Chickening out?” Fitzy asks, and Roman gives him the finger and goes to the bar, where Harry’s moved beyond ‘sitting beside’ to ‘glued to his side’. Roman’s been trying not to notice. Roman’s also been fighting the petty instinct to go over and make himself comfortable in the space that’s opened up on Connie’s other side. Harry sitting down with them last time got — let’s go with awkward.

“Do you mind taking some stuff for me?” Roman asks. “Don’t want my wallet getting stolen again.”

Connie grimaces. He was with Roman that night, and Roman remembers him apologizing for not somehow managing to realize when it happened, because of course he did.

“Sure,” he says, while Harry does something weird with his face that Roman thinks might be him trying not to glare. It’s not really working. “What was that about blowjobs?”

Harry’s _definitely_ glaring now.

“He means the ridiculous shooter,” Roman says. “I think.”

“You _think_?” Connie asks.

“I’m pretty sure,” Roman says. 

Connie looks slightly appalled. 

“I promise not to blow him if I lose?” Roman says, and Harry scoffs loudly while Connie goes pink. That was probably too direct. No one they know close enough to hear them, but — well. Harry’s there. So. That’s someone.

“What do you need me to hold?” Connie asks, and Roman hands him his wallet and his phone before going to kick Fitzy’s ass, just like he promised.

Fitzy not only buys him a blowjob — and then leers as he drinks it as it’s intended to be drunk, because of course he does — but also two more beers, which is why Roman doesn’t realize until they get to the hotel that Connie still has his stuff. His room key’s in his wallet, which is a problem, considering his ID is _also_ in his wallet, and his phone is, well. He can’t exactly text Connie if Connie has his phone. 

A few weeks ago Roman wouldn’t think twice, would be knocking at Connie’s door (412, and he knows this because he was standing behind him when he got his key, not for any other reason). With the way things are right now, though, the tightrope walk of what’s acceptable, Roman’s pretty sure Harry will get pissed if Roman shows up at their door, consider it against the tentative agreement they have going, even if Roman’s got a pretty valid reason.

Roman debates just asking Fitzy if he can crash, but he’s probably got only the one bed, same as Roman, and he’s pretty sure Mike would knock his teeth out again if he shared a bed with his boyfriend. Roman bets he kicks anyway. He seems like a kicker.

The woman behind the front desk keeps looking at him suspiciously, like if he asked her to call Connie’s room she’d call security instead, and Roman can’t even blame her. He knows he’s physically imposing, and the shiner from last game plus the suit probably makes him look like a mobster or something. 

He lingers indecisively long enough that there aren’t any North Stars around, all either up in their rooms or back at the bar, so he can’t even get someone _else_ to text Connie. The front desk clerk is starting to look a little anxious, and Roman thinks that’s his cue to go. It’s too early for Connie to be in bed, anyway, so Roman can’t be disturbing him too much. They’re probably just watching TV. 

_Or they found a better way to wind down_ , Roman thinks once he’s in the elevator. He tries to brush the thought aside, because if he dwells on it he’s going to end up right back downstairs and trying to explain to Coach tomorrow why exactly he got picked up by security. Unfortunately would not be the first time. There really don’t seem to be a lot of careers where you walk around with a black eye in a thousand dollar suit, and people’s first guesses don’t tend to be ‘hockey player’.

Roman takes a deep breath before he knocks, which is ridiculous, and he ends up knocking harder than he means to, like he’s trying to prove he’s not actually nervous to be knocking on a teammate’s fucking door. 

“Connie?” Roman calls, when he doesn’t answer the door after a good minute. “I don’t mean to bother you but you’ve still got my wallet.”

“One sec,” Connie calls back. 

Almost another full minute later he can hear the deadbolt turning, which puts a knot in his stomach even before Harry opens the door, glare on full blast. He doesn’t open it far, but it’s enough to see his shirt has maybe two buttons done up, in the middle, like either he hastily refastened them when there was a knock on the door then ran out of time, or like they were about to be undone. There’s a flush across his cheeks and crawling down his chest, blotchy and hectic, so unlike the pink Connie goes, the pink Roman can’t avoid thinking about, wondering how far it extends. It’s the kind of flush Harry has after games, that lingers sometimes when they go out after, not embarrassment but, well. Exertion.

One guess what kind of exertion. Roman doesn’t think he was doing push-ups.

Roman’s eyes flick down despite his best intentions, and — fuck. He wishes he hadn’t. Harry’s got the button of his pants undone, a visible tent, and any question that Harry wasn’t…occupied when Roman knocked is soundly rebuffed.

“Your wallet,” Harry says, shoving it at him. He sounds impatient, and who could blame him, with what Roman clearly interrupted.

“My um. He had my phone, too,” Roman adds reluctantly and Harry marches back inside, not bothering to close the door the whole way. Roman can hear the murmur of voices, not enough to understand the words, but enough to know Connie’s not in the bathroom or something. Roman’s wondering why he didn’t come to the door himself, especially since it seems like answering the door was the last thing Harry wanted to do. The answer comes quick and unwelcome: that maybe Harry was the more dressed of the two. The less aroused. That Connie was in a state he couldn’t make presentable in two minutes.

It’s not that Roman didn’t believe Connie when he said he wasn’t a virgin, but it’s one thing to believe it and another thing to be confronted with it, that he clearly interrupted something that was on its way to sex, if not already there, that Connie’s on his bed, or Harry’s, mussed and debauched. That he doesn’t want Roman to see him like that, or at least doesn’t want Roman to see that Harry _made_ him look like that.

 _It’s not a fucking competition_ , Roman thinks, but it’s harder and harder to believe it when if it was one, he’d be losing.

“Here,” Harry says, thrusting his phone out at him.

“Thanks,” Roman says, to the door shutting in his face. In a hurry, and of course he is, with what he’s going back to. It’s not hard to picture it. Fuck, it’s harder _not_ to picture it.

Roman fights the images on his walk to his room, but it’s a battle he loses by the time he gets back, resting his forehead against the door before he fishes his key out of his wallet.

 _I don’t think I can do this_ , Roman thinks, and the weird thing is that he means it, he truly means it, but at the same time he’s pretty sure he’s still completely willing to take whatever Connie offers.

*

The rest of the short trip is a fucking mess. They get another win, barely, but they lose Samberg in the bargain, ankle giving out under him in a way that has the whole bench flinching, has them knowing, before anyone says a thing, that he won’t be back tonight. Won’t be back for awhile, probably.

More selfishly, Roman can’t stop thinking about the way Harry looked, opening that door, can’t stop filling in the blanks, which is easy, too easy. Wondering if the reason Connie’s just a little early to breakfast and not the first one there is because Harry waylaid him. Looking at Connie in the locker room and seeing if there’s anything…visible, feeling guilty about it then inevitably doing the damn same thing to Harry, who catches him at it and unsurprisingly gives him a glare in response.

Roman has trouble sleeping the final night, can’t shut his mind off, especially without anything distracting him, and it goes right back to where it’s been pacing since that night, a mix of indelible images and second guesses. Maybe he shouldn’t have turned Connie down when he offered him a drink. Maybe he should have trusted Connie to set the pace. Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed him that first time at all.

He’s grumpy at the airport the next morning, tired and not in the mood for a flight, snaps at Fitzy twice for his inexhaustible energy, his inability to _shut up_. The second time Fitzy looks a little hurt.

“Didn’t sleep well,” Roman says in apology.

“Ooh, why?” Fitzy says, right back to cheerful. “Can I guess?”

“No,” Roman snaps, and Fitzy’s quiet for approximately two seconds before he’s talking again.

Roman pinches the bridge of his nose, and Fitzy shuts up all at once.

“Headache?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Roman says. “Just tired.”

“Sure?” Fitzy asks. “I have Tylenol in my bag.”

“Just need some more coffee,” Roman says, and Fitzy literally _gets up_ to get Roman some.

“You’re tolerable sometimes,” Roman tells him when he comes back with it.

“Aww,” Fitzy says. “You’re so sweet. My surrogate Mi—boyfriend.”

The reason for Fitzy’s self-censorship becomes obvious when Roman catches Connie hovering, close enough that he’d have heard Fitzy leak the name of the reason for the Rookie Detectives’ existence, far enough not to interrupt a conversation because he’s too polite for his own good.

“Sup, Sweetheart?” Fitzy says. 

“Where’s your tag-a-long?” Roman asks before he can help himself.

“Went to the washroom,” Connie says, which is unsurprising, Roman guesses, because otherwise he’d probably be glaring at Roman right over Connie’s shoulder. Though he might not make it up to Connie’s shoulder. Getting on his tiptoes to glare over Connie’s shoulder? It’s hard not to smile at the thought. “Can I have a second with Roman, Liam?” Connie asks.

“Sure, but just so you know I’ll be eavesdropping like two feet away,” Fitzy says.

“Could you, um—” Connie says. “This is sort of—”

“Fuck off, Fitzy,” Roman says, and Fitzy gives him a salute then goes over to pester Findlay.

“Have a seat,” Roman says, when Connie looks like he’s planning to hover indefinitely, and Connie takes the seat Fitzy vacated.

“What’s up?” Roman asks when he doesn’t say anything.

“Are we okay?” Connie asks.

“Okay how?” Roman asks.

“I mean, we haven’t really talked much since we left town,” Connie says, looking down at his hands and starting to mumble, low enough Roman has to lean in to catch what he’s saying and Fitzy probably wouldn’t have been able to eavesdrop even if he had stuck around. “I was wondering if I did something? Or if maybe you changed your mind after—”

“Sweetheart,” Roman interrupts. “You’ve had an angry ginger glued to your side all week. I was kind of afraid if I talked to you he’d bite my head off.”

“I’m sorry,” Connie says, because of course he apologizes for other people, then, “I’ll talk to him?” like that’s liable to go well.

“Good luck with that,” Roman says, and feels bad immediately when Connie looks hurt. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You okay?” Connie asks. “Something—”

“Just insomnia,” Roman says, because it’s a better answer than _just couldn’t stop thinking about what you and Harry were getting up to behind closed doors._ He’s never been a particularly jealous person, and he doesn’t like feeling this way, isn’t proud of it.

“So,” Connie says looking up with these big hopeful eyes. “I just wanted to make sure we were okay.”

“C’mere,” Roman says, putting his coffee down to pull him in. “We’re good, okay?”

“Okay,” Connie says, cheek warm against Roman’s neck, and Roman’s about to pull back when he sees Harry and his ever-present glare out of the corner of his eye, face practically screaming ‘that’s against the rules’, though fuck knows he hasn’t been following them. 

It’s not a competition, Roman reminds himself sternly, but he holds on a little longer.


End file.
